A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,107
took a sip of his port. “And do you know why the Society of Artists failed in my father’s day?”
“Because everybody was too focused on petty squabbles rather than on advancing the cause of British art. I have eight siblings, Holmes, I know all about petty squabbles.”
The food arrived, and a few more diners took tables nearby. Oak recognized two older fellows who lectured at the Academy and an Italian sculptor in London to execute some expensive commissions.
“Exactly,” Holmes said, picking up a knife. “Internal strife can ruin an organization, and artists are an excitable lot. Richard has fallen victim to unfortunate medical limitations, and he works tirelessly for the Academy as a whole. We overlook his games for the sake of the greater good.”
We, meaning Longacre’s plots were common knowledge in some circles. Oak lost what appetite he’d had.
“Endymion de Beauharnais is leaving London,” Oak said, loudly enough to turn a few heads. “He is one of the best talents to come along in decades, and Longacre’s disgusting behavior is forcing him back to the shires. You allow that to go on.”
Holmes sawed away at his steak. “A pity, but de Beauharnais is young. He has time to return to the fold when he’s not so—”
“He will go to Paris,” Oak said, “and he will make sure the French know why he’s turned his back on London. From there, he will go to Rome and very likely the Americas. A man with that much raw ability need not put up with an Academy that tolerates extortion and corruption.”
The Italian was gaping. Three waiters were assiduously perfecting the arrangement of cutlery at empty tables nearby.
“Longacre forces talented young painters to create forgeries,” Oak said, which might have been slander, except it was the truth. “He’s attempting the same game with me.”
Holmes leaned across the table, his air of urbane humor deserting him. “Paint a few pictures for him,” he all but whispered, “and he’ll move on to fresh game. Richard is venal, but not stupid. He hasn’t the talent to create his own reproductions, and one must nearly admire his ingenuity. I suspect if Anna Beaumont hadn’t thrown him over for Dirk Channing, he might have been content to paint landscapes and flatter dowagers.”
Oak did not lower his voice. “But instead of politely ceding the field where Anna was concerned, Longacre has been sulking ever since she threw him over.”
“It’s worse than that,” Holmes said, glancing around. “He refused to release her from her betrothal agreements. If she’d married Dirk, Longacre would have brought suit. It’s not the done thing, but a man can legally sue for breach of promise.”
“A gentleman would not,” Oak countered. “And this is your version of supporting the greater good? Ignoring Longacre’s tantrums and crimes?”
Holmes speared a bite of beef and chewed vigorously. “Dorning, you are not a bad artist, and I did have hopes for you, but London might not be the best place to pursue your ambitions.”
Oak resisted the urge to dash Holmes’s port in his face. “I point out to you that the Academy is harboring a forger, slanderer, and blackmailer among its ranks, and your reaction is to tell me to run along, because this criminal has the patience to winkle commissions out of women married to wealthy cits. Where is your honor, Holmes? Where is your artistic integrity?”
“Artistic integrity? Dorning, such a quaint concept has no place in—”
“Without our integrity, artists have little to offer but shallow decoration to cover the water stains in our grandmothers’ parlors. You have disappointed me, Holmes, and betrayed your calling. I’ll bid you good day.”
Holmes set down his knife and fork. “It’s not as if Anna Beaumont was a lady. She was just some country cousin Richard took a fancy to. Pretty enough, but Dirk had to have her, and she had to have him, and there was no reasoning with either of them. One feels sorry for Longacre as the losing party.”
“The losing party,” Oak said, “will be the Academy if you continue to ignore Longacre’s behavior. And, Holmes?”
“Dorning?”
“Anna Beaumont was a lady. They are all ladies.” He nodded rather than bow or offer his hand.
“Dorning,” Holmes said, picking up his wineglass, “righteous fury becomes no one.”
“Sheer complacence in the face of wrongdoing becomes us even less, and moral bankruptcy becomes us not at all.”
Chapter Fourteen
Oak took a seat at a faro table, though in the afternoon light, The Coventry Club was deserted. “I need your help.”